All Content

About

Dog Days 2018: Year of the Dog

Lines so deep in his face they are small ravines. A few yellowed teeth ride the wave of his jaw, as he tells me about his trip with his father to a greyhound track in the sixties. His hand strokes my dog’s long face. She leans into him. “We were leaving, and he said to me, ‘This is the losers’ pen.’ And sure enough, a guy comes out and puts them down, one by one,” his free hand a gun now, recoiling one, two, three times. “Twenty of them,” he says. “I said, ‘Get me the hell out of here, dad.’” He shakes his head. Eyes wet with cold or old sorrow revivified, he looks down at my sweet greyhound. “You’re safe now,” he coos. “You’ve got a good home.” And as if on cue, she peels away from his legs to lean against mine. He returns to his shovel, boots crunching on fresh, white snow.

Yesterday I opened the door from the garage into the kitchen and a black dog, knee high, was there to greet me, cheerful, with triangular ears. It made me so happy! I was surprised to find he was just a black plastic bag full of white plastic bags hanging from the door knob, ready to take back to the store for recycling. You have to understand he was there. I named him Jack—Jack the Dog.

A Tribute To The Founder

Chris' dream was to feature and support artists all over the world. So in place of donations, please visit the EIL Art Store and shop items by our featured artists. Your support is extremely appreciated.